


Bright Green and Paying Up

by loquaciouslass



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Humor, Stripper AU, but there's strippers in it, or not really an au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 19:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciouslass/pseuds/loquaciouslass
Summary: Ace Dick is very suspicious of where Problem Sleuth is getting the money to pay for rent, new clothes, and anything else he needs.





	

Nursing a mug of joe thick as the new moon night with scraps of paper scattered across your desk isn’t the way you thought you’d spend the night. This is more Sleuth’s domain, usually; the noir atmosphere and stink of smoke guiding his eyes to the right words- that’s how he puts it. You don’t care for all that shit, as you’ve said a number of times, but caffeine helps bolster your energy levels so you can try to piece together what the heck Sleuth is playing at. 

 

It started with his new tie. The old one got burnt up and you  _ know _ that Sleuth don’t got the green to pay for a new one. That would’ve been a one-off, probably, if it weren’t for the fact that Sleuth continued to pay for shit. A new vat for Pickles. Box of chocolates for Dame. 

 

The rent. 

 

Of course, you ain’t complaining that  _ you _ don’t gotta pay for it. Rent ain’t cheap in Chicagopolis, especially this close to the Imaginary Realm. But with all these bills and odd notes that stink faintly of sweaty desperation, you’re starting to think- where the hell is Sleuth getting the cash? 

 

He don’t have a job outside of this detective gig, after all. Well, he’s a diplomat, technically, but that only pays in experience points and free pies. Not that you’re gonna turn your nose up at free pie, but it doesn’t pay for a dang thing. None of these paychecks or bills are marked as anything else- he’s not working part time, far as you can see. You squint. There’s gotta be something. 

 

Too bad your imagination stat is a hot steaming turd. You bolster it with a swig of brandy, and wait for the tiny flickers of creativity to piece things together. 

 

Sleuth could be getting money from family. The tie could’ve been a gift. But no, there’s no way he wouldn’t have mentioned that at some point- ‘Silver Tongue’ Sleuth would’ve been a good nickname if he were a gangster or a lawyer, he’d said one day. Before you smacked him across the back of the head, because that was a stupid thing to say. Sleuth’s not really that smart. Pickles is the one with brains, but Pickles has to be reminded that reality is, in fact, a thing. 

 

Divine Providence, maybe? But he was too skinny to be the goddess’ type. She favoured a man’s man. A real burly dude. 

 

You purse your lips and scowl at the paper. ‘Silver Tongue’ Sleuth, pretty boy, apparent secret millionaire. What could he be doing? What are you missing?

 

There’s a click of a door shutting, and humming. You rush over to your door as quick as you can to see an average (but pretty) silhouette strolling by. It has something slung over its shoulder. 

 

Problem Sleuth. You frown, wait for him to pass, and lock your door. 

 

You’ve got a detective to spy on. 

  
  


It’s not a quiet night in Chicagopolis, hussies tittering on the street corners and mobsters smoking cigarettes under streetlights. No one pays you much mind, what’s one short dude on a cold night? They probably think you’re heading for some grub or a beer. 

 

You’d rather be doing that, honestly. 

 

But Sleuth is ambling his way through the back alleys, smarming his way past muggers with combat tech 34: show some leg (and then kick them in the goddamn face). It’s a real talent that folks keep falling for that, with the fucking green tie Sleuth’s always got on. He slips into the darkness behind one of the many, many speakeasies in Chicagopolis, still holding onto that little bag, and you hear a door slam. Fuck. 

 

You could always burst through and corner him. You’ve got more than enough vim for that. But you really don’t want to get caught out by whatever gross combat stuff he’s learnt since the whole Mobster Kingpin stuff. You’ll probably end up covered in chocolate sauce and knives. 

 

Fucking Sleuth and his knives. 

 

Still, you can hear the queue outside the building, and go to check it out. Some sorta show must be on tonight. There’s a lot of dudes and dames alike, all giggly with pamphlets held to their chests. You squint into the crowd. No Dame or Broad here. No Madam Mural either, thank god. 

 

There is, however, a very small man that you do recognise. All in black, because why wouldn’t he be, and tossing car keys between his hands. You stomp over to lord over him, and maybe start a fight. 

 

“Oh, Mr Dick!” Says Clubs Deuce, splitting his face like a glass hitting the floor, “I thought you had a wife?” You squint at him, as if it will drill your request for an explanation into his big, stupid head. 

 

Nothing gets past Clubs’ head, though, and you growl out, “What?” 

 

“Just, this is more of a couples thing, you know? Ladies come with their husbands, then they get all giggly, then there’s a ‘special hug’...” 

 

You stare. He cannot possibly be that stupid. He cannot be in a gang of goddamn nightmare gremlins and still not know what couples do. 

 

He just giggles though, face still split, and pulls you along with his arm. “But who am I to judge, Mr Dick! You can sit with me in the special seats, it must be rare for you to afford a show like this!” 

 

“Alright, what the  _ fuck _ is that supposed to mean, you little-” 

 

But it’s cut off; the doors swing open and a stampede of people fling themselves into the club- Firecracker, you catch before the tides sweep you inside. Clubs pulls you up to a little enclave away, shoves a drink into your hand, and settles into the hottest seat in the house. There’s an amazing view of the stage from here, but it’s hidden away. People would have to be looking to find you. 

 

...The pieces start to fall into place, and you  _ really _ hope that Clubs knows what the ‘special hug’ is. He’s watching the stage like the godhead himself is about to come down and drop some sick regarding on the crowd. 

 

The lights dim. The old timey speakers crackle, and the curtains part. 

 

A pole. A pole with a very dressed, very fluorescent detective on it. 

 

Problem Sleuth tips his hat down, presumably giving bedroom eyes to the entire underworld of Chicaopolis and says, “I think this detective needs to be strip searched!” 

 

The crowd goes wild as he leaps onto the pole, holding on with only his legs, ass highlighted by the bright lights and oh fucking god, it all makes sense now. You know how he’s getting money. And he  _ is _ working with mobsters, just not illegally, you’re never going to be able to look at him the same way again. 

 

Sleuth only has a shirt and bright green booty shorts on by the time you finally look up. Cripes, he even shaved his  _ legs _ . The asshole didn’t even bother to take his socks off! 

 

Next to you, Clubs seems to be having a fantastic time. “Boy, he sure is good, isn’t he, Mr Dick?”

 

You sincerely hope that this is Sleuth’s only connection to the crew. You really don’t want to walk into Sleuth’s office while he’s talking  _ private business _ with Clubs Deuce. 

 

This entire affair is extremely embarrassing. 

 

You’re almost happy when the door bursts open and the cops rush in.

 

“Alright, stick ‘em up! We know there’s funny business happening here!” 

 

Clubs moves before you do, tapping some hidden button and making smoke plume out. All the doors click open, and before you know it, Clubs has your arm and he’s dragging you downstairs. There’s so many people, all scattering aside, the odd bullet flying around, but somehow, you get on stage. With Clubs. And a very much not-dressed Problem Sleuth. 

 

Clubs claps his hands together, and the smoke clears. 

 

“Everyone!” He shouts, “We’re  _ very _ sorry that the show has to end so soon, but we’ll be back ASAP! To all the cops, shove batons up your asses!” 

 

He grabs Sleuth by the arm, and you. Then he grins again. 

 

“So long!”

 

There’s a massive explosion, smelling like aniseed, and before you know it, you’re all back in Sleuth’s office. He looks dazed. Clubs is grinning. 

 

“Welp, we’ll have to rearrange that! Good job drawing the crowds though, Mr Sleuth!” He tucks a wad of bills into Sleuth’s fucking bright green booty shorts. “Same time, same place for arranging! G’bye!” 

 

And he’s gone. It’s just you and Sleuth in an office, thankfully not locked. 

 

Pickle Inspector walks in without so much as knocking, holding some folder about a case of stolen goods. 

 

He pauses. He blinks. 

 

“There is a key.” He says. “For the door. You know. I have spares.” 

 

Silence. 

 

“I’ll just put these down and go.” 

 

Two mysteries solved in one day, hopefully. Sleuth hasn’t said anything, thank  _ god _ , and Pickles is chilled out as ever. Presumably he thinks you’re just being rude. 

 

You slam the door for good measure and settle in your office with a heavy cup of coffee, black as a moonless night. Sleuth’s a stripper. Sleuth’s a stripper at Crew Clubs- could be worse, honestly, but that don’t mean you have to like it. 

 

You’re having words with him tomorrow, about getting mixed up in gangland affairs. 

 

But for now, you have some paperwork to do. Because you are, quite frankly, fed up of thinking about Sleuth’s bright green beacon of an ass. 

  
At least he’s putting the pulchritude stat to work. 


End file.
